


Rude Collection

by persesphone



Series: Spider-Man: College AU [2]
Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Christmas Party, Drunkenness, F/M, Future Fic, I promise, MJ puts on some weight from college, Mutual Pining, Peter's eyes get big, PeterMJ - Freeform, Spideychelle, Thanksgiving Dinner, and he's drunk, and when she squeezes into a dress for a christmas party, it's not sad at all like the summary, lol what is a word count for this great pairing?, so of course he reveals too much of his harbored crush, this is many snippets strung together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 05:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12720144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persesphone/pseuds/persesphone
Summary: It's then that he makes the biggest mistake of his life.Maybe Peter's eyes got too big—and maybe it's his desperate years of yearning—and maybe it's the eggnog, but when he repeats more admit, Michelle's mouth goes dry and she swears that her already rapid heartbeat literally stops for a full minute."I've been in love with you since I was eighteen," Peter slurs, peering into the cup, back out at the pool, at the party inside, at nearly anything but her face.That is, it turns out, a really fucking colossal mistake.





	Rude Collection

**Author's Note:**

> **this is based off of a conversation i had with spideychelleforever on tumblr, that included MJ and Peter's future in college, after her putting on that freshman 21 (as most do in college or university), and MJ wearing[THIS](https://78.media.tumblr.com/2dc25a7b6c329f4857651292f474a38c/tumblr_oto8x6Vgyv1re9k69o1_1280.jpg) dress.**

Michelle probably should have suspected it would happen, but she was still caught rather off guard.

When she walks through the doors of her parents' home the first day of Thanksgiving break from university, she immediately picks up the registers the hesitation in the air. There's the halt of words as everyone in the sitting room—her mother, two aunts, an uncle—seem to stare and then study and critic her at the doorway. But Michelle puts on a forced smile and shuffles off to fit her suitcase in the small space left in her bedroom that had been turned into a study office.

Michelle comes home from university for Thanksgiving break and the first thing her Aunt Jess says after greeting her is: "ooh, girl! you've gained some weight, haven't you, huh?" and "You've gone and put some more meat on those bones!"

And Michelle's smile wavers.

It's true that she _may have_ put on a couple pounds since high school—which, in Michelle's defense, was over a year ago—and likewise in her defense, it isn't her fault that her university's cafeteria supplies the best food she's ever had on a campus.

"Oooh, _Michelle!_ " her mother exclaims, playful, and tapping the girl's thigh once and her butt. "You got some _hips_ now, huh?"

And it's true that in Michelle's defense, stress and metabolism contributed to the weight settling around her lower body, but since being out of her parents' home and away from many of those she'd known in high school, she didn't exactly have a gauge or some way to compare to her _before_. And so, she scoffs, or rolls her eyes, or excuses herself from the room when further remarks are made.

Michelle shrugs at the comments she's given by her family—the teasing smirks from cousins that come over, and having to sit through her father's stories about his college experiences in a way to probably sympathize with her (he assumed caused by low self-esteem) and Michelle has to cut his talk short because he drones. She helps her mother prepare large dishes of collared greens cooked with ox tails, black eyed peas and lima beans, baked macaroni and cheese, roasted lamb and duck. And then she sits through the grilling questions at the dinner table about her classes and grades; shrinks at the gazes she can feel burning into her tightening jeans when she gets up to use the bathroom; endures the the overstated, overdramatized inquiring about whether she has a boyfriend (" _or_ girlfriend! either or, we wouldn't care"), or if she has a crush "especially with those hips and thighs, _girl_ _!_ " her older aunt compliments, swirling a glass of Barefoot wine in one hand; "you can get a man with those hips; ensnare a man, but make sure he's _faithful_...not like your cousin Rochelle's no good, down-dirty, son of a mother—"

Michelle's lips press in a tight, thin line. She nods. Wishes she could leave.

And speaking of friends, she's asked if she's reconnected with any from high school, to which Michelle informs that there are a few who haven't moved far. And then, to her relief, the questions stop...until it's the day of Thanksgiving and they travel to the houses of other family, and it all starts over.

Has she got a boyfriend? How are her grades? What's it like at her university—is it difficult; can she handle the workload; has she got a job yet? And then when she stands, there's quips about how Michelle will probably need to go shopping for new pants and sweaters soon because the weather, and if that poking out of her shirt is her "food baby" (it is), and "ooohh my God, little Shelley! Look, Marlene, she's got some hips now! And a butt!" There's longing commentary about where the time had gone about Michelle, and some remarks about remembering when she was a child.

Her younger relatives aren't as sympathetic. There are four times Michelle's weight gain was pointed out in the cruelest way that included pokes and prods and short verbal roasts. One cousin who's seven and nicknamed Debbie-web comments that Michelle now looks soft around the waist. Another one asks why she looks different than he remembers. And then another flat out speaks, scrunching his nose, "maybe you need to start running more." And if looks could set fires, he would have been simmering in a little fire under Michelle's glare.

Unfortunately it doesn't end, still; in between helpings of cornbread, candied yams, and deep fried turkey, the comments become less and less compassionate. By the time Michelle returns home, she's collected only two to-go plates from the four homes (compared to her usual four, her mother concerned), and she's greatly contemplating whether she should toss her clothes away like her third older cousin slyly suggested around a glass of rum.

That night, Michelle looks at herself in the bathroom mirror, pinches at the skin of her belly that's just slightly pudgier than it was two years ago, and grabs at the fat on her thighs that definitely wasn't there back in high school. She sighs, wears an extra large, blown-out shirt to bed that swallows her whole.

* * *

But Michelle doesn't let it get to her, not for long. The following days after the holiday is when you're still visiting family and eating the last bits of the shared feasts before it's time to throw away leftovers and when others are preparing to travel home. The parties become smaller, as does the amount of food on their plates to take.

On the first day, Michelle rolls up in the driveway wearing a pair of black sweatpants with PINK in grey lettering down one leg, and an old teal-blue v-neck because why not; she's home and comfortable and doesn't have to look pretty for anyone. She ties her hair in a ponytail and endures her great-grandmother's remarks about Michelle's new emerging shape.

A young, mean relative tosses a skinny, rotten pear at Michelle, telling that it's her lost twin. Michelle snarks, "at least I _have_ an ass."

On the third day, Michelle's in stretchy jeans and a NYU t-shirt and at her first uncle and aunt's house when she's invited to tag on a trip to the mall with her aunt. There, she's offered to be bought new bras; the reasoning behind it that Michelle's going to need new clothes anyway, being a college student. But she knows what it really entails, not ignorant that her cousin, the daughter of Michelle's aunt, without a doubt reiterated the same comments Michelle's been hearing her whole stay.

* * *

 

By the time Michelle returns to her campus flat, she feels spent, bleary, and bloated; flops on her bed and sleeps for the rest of the day. She has several new outfits and five to-go dinners of leftover ham, green beans, macaroni and cheese stuffed in the fridge, and her flatmates haven't returned yet.

She awakes to a text message that's an invitation about an upcoming event, sent by a guy in her building, downstairs. She showers, runs her hands through her hair, yawns; she chooses to respond to the text later, using late timing as an excuse to decline. Only, instead, she gets caught up in the news as she's toweling dry. There's a report about a petty robbery before switching to live coverage of Spider-Man taking on recently escaped convict rampaging in a large rhinoceros-shaped robot. Michelle reads the time on her phone—9:47pm. It's just passed dinnertime, not even time for dessert and this is happening. Sigh. The holiday break isn't even over yet and he has this to deal with.

Eyes training on the blur of red flying around far behind the reporter, Michelle throws on a pair of short gym shorts and a brassier and waits for her hair to dry and for the announcement that the convict—nicknaming himself Rhino—is being apprehended by the authorities and that Spider-Man has left the scene for her to tap open the messaging feature on her phone. In a new text bubble, she types: _Want to get dinner? I haven't had any yet and bet you could use some too. And maybe a doctor?_

She's surprised at how quickly his agreeing response comes—forty-eight minutes later, her cell phone chimes. (Usually it takes him hours to reply.)

* * *

The whole time, Michelle wears a hoodie and a pair of her old jeans. She doesn't take the hoodie off until she returns home. (And she thinks she saw, once, Peter staring at her in a daze and akin to the way he used to stare at pretty girls he liked, but then he blinks out of it and forced a smile that makes her stomach knot and gives an excuse of a daydream.) The last she saw Peter, before this, was four months ago.

* * *

Being stubborn still, Michelle continues to wear her now-tight tank tops and jeans that are now too form-fitting and shoves her newer clothes somewhere in the mess of her closet—aside from her new bras and sweaters.

* * *

Michelle doesn't see Peter Parker for two weeks after that. Partially because she's kept busy by research papers and professor-assigned novels and scrambling to find enough money for pizza for cram sessions and between helping her flatmate deal with the post-breakup from her cheating boyfriend, and late subway trains, and then the mania of a friendly neighbor's robbery and finding out his flatmate is a cocaine dealer, and then Michelle discovers the cafe at the local art museum is a perfect study location for when her second flatmate and her girlfriend are a _little too loud_ in their coupling and, and, and, and—

There's a lot of reasons why; a lot of contributions to why it takes her four months to reach out to Peter Parker again, she tells herself—she makes the excuse.

Midterms results are reviewed. And though the two send a few texts back and forth in rant about the incompetence of some police officers and how the new robbers that could _easily_ be solved if the authorities just _think_ , it takes Michelle nearly a week to reply to Peter's simple **_Hey_** and invite to play video games. She lies herself that it was schoolwork that kept her busy, as she stands in front of her bathroom mirror and pulls her spaghetti strap tank top around her torso—it had been very loose a two years ago. The mirror smells like Windex. Everything in this shared bathroom smells like fucking Windex and potpourri.

School is the excuse Michelle gives for a lot of things.

* * *

 

It takes Cindy twenty-three point five minutes to reach Michelle's front door with a plastic container of leftover enchiladas and a thermos full of wine.

It's three weeks later and Cindy, so very delightfully squeals "MJ!" at nine in the morning on a Friday and wraps her arms around her friend in a tight hug. Michelle's pace remains unhurried; Cindy's enthusiasm isn't as absorbing, for once. Invites herself inside, flops across Michelle's living room sofa.

And she goes on a ramble, oversharing about traditions and family squabbles and how she had to travel south and went to a place called _The Lotus_ that held live performances and appetizers for thirty-six dollars. And Cindy carefully adjusting the ruby red pin in her hair, politely asks, "I hope you had a smooth trip, considering the weather. Family?"

Michelle shrugs, her arms crossing and glances to the time on the stove. "Was fine."

Cindy nods. Asks about Michelle's wellbeing in general, which is shrugged off with a dry laugh.

" _Really_." Cindy wrinkles her nose. "You ate nothing but chili cheese fries yesterday...And then nothing but jalapeño poppers for a whole week that one time."

Michelle sighs, blowing at a fallen curl. Rolls her eyes. " _One_ time. Can't help being busy."

They sit in stubborn silence for nearly a full minute. It's broken by Cindy asking if the other brought a helping of Michelle's family's cooked duck, collard greens, and mac and cheese per request. They've scheduled to binge-watch episodes of Big Brother before classes resume next week.

Cindy offers her version of a charming wink, her nose wrinkling. "I brought wine." She nods at her large, cotton candy pink thermos; KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON in white block letters down the side that is literally flaking off along the edges, and the pink is bright and obnoxious but she insists that it has _sentimental value_ and continues to drag it along everywhere she goes, and, _wow_ has Michelle never been happier to see it before now.

"White or red?"

Cindy tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and stands to get glasses. "White."

Michelle pauses. "Can we drink it straight out of it?"

Cindy's expression flickers with something like _incredulity_ for a split-second before turning a intrigued. " _You_ can," her voice lowering.

Michelle sets up the episode to watch. Her friend returns and sets two glasses on the coffee table, retrieves a bottle of Advil from her bag. "I got you something—a present. Last you said you were out, right?" She smiles. Opens her thermos, pours herself a glass. "You're welcome."

Michelle grins. "I am _hopeless_ without you, Cindy."

"I know."

* * *

 

Two weeks later Michelle gets four texts that are within seven minutes of each other. The first is from Peter: **_Hey_** and **_Could you do me a huge favor? Can you got to my place and get something for_ _me?_** and then _**Meet me at the hospital, don't panic**_.

The fourth text is from Ned: _Peter is in the hospital_ _._

* * *

Turns out that that he had been hit while speeding on his bike through five o'clock traffic. The worry he needs Michelle to retrieve is a portfolio needing to be dropped off to a J. Jonah Jameson at a newspaper headquarters, and a homework assignment he's to type up on his phone.

In the meantime, Michelle makes the trip there and back. When she arrives at the hospital, her footsteps are aggressive to Peter's patient room. The first thing she wants to do is tell him is that the Jameson man was impatient and and ask _why_ Peter would ever want to work with someone like him. The second thing she wants to do is scold him for worrying more about his homework than his health.

She wants to withhold his homework seeing that he's in an arm cast.

Peter smiles sheepishly. "Heyyy, MJ."

She flicks him on his broken arm.

* * *

 

She has an on-campus job in tutoring—her category is English and writing which, ironically, is not her best, her weakness being grammar.

Michelle doesn't keep the job longer than a semester.

Currently, she's settling on a shelving position at a local library.

* * *

 

Since the holiday, she doesn't hear from her family except for a random phone call on afternoon from her mother; the ending of the conversation is a question about the comfort of Michelle's new bras. And she finds out that her cousin, Rochelle, finally called off the engagement with her boyfriend who'd been cheating on her for years now. Turns out that Rochelle and the other woman chased the boyfriend past three major streets, and his possessions are now sitting at the side of the road and ready for the trash collectors.

* * *

 

Michelle and Peter continue exchanging messages and Snapchats. (They have _a thing_ that's been going on for months, years now that's a collection of shared Vines and reaction photos and Michelle always coming just short of confessing.) Sometimes, Michelle would wake up to a rant about his delivery boss or a good morning text. At lunch, she sends pictures of her food; his comply mostly of the pizza from where he delivers and she marvels how he doesn't seem put on pounds. She's a bit jealous, actually. Which turns into bitter, two-word-max replies and then he double texts, triple texts, and somehow they agree on a Netflix night on Saturday.

He doesn't go through with it, though, cancelling three hours before. The next day, she hears that the Rhino guy had some friends out for Spider-Man.

Peter promises to resume their plans next Saturday. The day comes and passes with no avail.

* * *

 

Since high school graduation, Michelle has only been able to keep up with three friends.

She knows, by default, that Liz Allan is gone and away, having moved before the start of her twelfth grade year. And from social media, Michelle finds out that, one by one, her old associates and friends either enroll in a university, a preparatory school, or move on for God knows what.

From it, she knows that Liz has met a new beau and many others have remained the same; Michelle knows that Sally from Decathlon is taking a year gap to travel; two other of Michelle's friends are enrolled in a community college; there are uploads on Flash's Instagram that show he's still pursuing the DJ hobby-turned-plausible-career and there are several Snapchat stories that feature a roommate he's growing close to; there's Betty Brant who's enrolled at Michelle's university, and her last Snapchat story includes a friendly run-in and outing with Ned Leeds and some other girl from high school Michelle doesn't recognize.

Everyone around Michelle is growing, progressing, getting what they want.

And Michelle is still waiting on a job callback, eats tortilla chips at two in the morning, and is waiting on a fucking _callback_ from Peter Parker—a callback, a notice, a gratification, a _something_.

* * *

If any of them had a glow-up, Michelle would have to say that Cindy's was probably the most prominent.

The girl is practically, in fact, _glowing_ —she'd cut her hair and wears short acrylics and designer perfume and her skin is _clear_ ; she dresses in denim skirts with cute sewed-on patches, strawberry-scented lipgloss, and spaghetti-strap sports bras. She crosses her fingers and her heart and her ankles and applies for waitress positions at high-end jazz bars which she encourages Michelle to, also.

And Michelle, on the other hand—

And Michelle _relishes_ having an excuse to binge-eat fun-sized Kit Kats along with her, has some difficulty still about managing her curls without de-tangler, and she can't quite twist the caps off her Fiji water bottles, and her resting face is stony and she pouts; she wears skimpy satin lingerie under her hoodies, and she's grown accustomed to apply a dust of highlighter and swipe of mascara, and she squeezes into dresses gifted from her mother that she probably shouldn't keeping and wears pants that look painted on.

Cindy has a complete transformation since high school. Since then, she tries to drag Michelle along with her to wherever event she goes to.

* * *

 

As Christmastime rolls around, Michelle begins waking up to cool air seeping in through her window and scenic skyline photographs taken on Peter's cell phone. Hers responding are bowls of cereal and fuzzy socks and a large cup of hot mint tea, its lettering she makes sure to turn to the camera, reading WHY AM I UP THIS EARLY?

* * *

 

Also on these mornings before class, Michelle would scroll through social media and false celebrity allegations and _do it yourself_ seasonal projects and Instagram trainer posts she never follows.

One day, her scrolling pauses, catching the hashtag lit up in blue. Apparently, there's some popular _trend_ going around that involve taking selfies in a mirror and uploading some positive caption you would tell your younger self—both of which Michelle isn't able to do because _reasons_. She has only a few selfies uploaded from the past that are three blurry full body-ish shots and then one headshot taken recently—the setting sun behind her, hair blowing, and her silhouette preventing from seeing her hair is in her mouth—a photo taken by super.pparker

And Michelle is very certain that she isn't going to do the challenge, is about to exit out of the app when her phone chimes at a private message notification. It's from a girl she's grown to know in her classes; asks if Michelle has taken any photos to join in and share and like. The girl's username has an emoji of a crown beside a dark-skinned queen. After the decline, the classmate insists that Michelle should because she's got a model face and no bad angles and is willing to bet Michelle twenty dollars that she won't get less than thirty likes by the end of the week.

And so, naturally, Michelle takes the bet.

* * *

By Wednesday, Michelle's three new selfies reach forty-six likes, collectively.

Maybe, she thinks, it's her stances—some from the front, slanted angles reflections in the mirror, her hip popped; others from over the shoulder—or, she assumes it's from her full face of makeup, as hinted by the amounts of nails and sparkle emojis in the comments. And she would be lying if she said that her confidence isn't _a little_ boosted. By Friday, she's posted two more selfies—one full body and sitting on a concrete ledge, smiling, the other taken in a campus bathroom mirror—and she's gained sixty more likes and fifteen more followers; and she'd be lying to herself if she said that she wasn't feeling pretty damn good about this.

Needless to say, her friend pays for her dinner that night.

And it doesn't quite stop there. Because Michelle grows fond of the increasing amount of feedback on her photos, so, she begins posting more. She begins to dress up more, pulling out her newer clothes, applies a few strokes of makeup, and earrings. Her comment section fill with sassy replies and kissing face emojis—it's only when crude ones begin showing up does she gets a queasy stir in her gut.

When emojis of the water droplets, heart eyes emoji, and the peach begin collecting in number that drift away from her hair and makeup to associate more to her too-tight jeans and bottoms, Michelle gets a feeling in her chest that's equal parts repulsive as it's stimulating. Because while she doesn't _need_ to be told praises, it's a change from the veiled criticizing she's received from her family.

Her follower number climbs. Her likes hit the high hundreds.

* * *

Once, she posts about the dehumanizing and degrading that comes with lewd comments and virtual catcalling. It doesn't go well—she loses followers but gains others that outnumber the tongue emojis with the nails and sassy girl ones.

* * *

Regardless, Michelle doesn't tell why her mood is in a slump when she, Peter, and two friends are bootlegging a film in his living room. Her arms are folded against her oversized t-shirt and her lip pouting. Peter puts an arm around her shoulders in a side hug, and her heart just about jumps out of her chest.

She doesn't reveal her "secret" until the week later, when she has to turn her notifications _off_.

It's a week later and after a shared lunch and they're in Michelle's bedroom, her small heater set on medium because the wind still blows past the glass of her window.

"C'mon," he whines, sprawled out on Michelle's bed as she sits cross-legged on the floor, meticulously organizing a pile of printed out powerpoint slides. "Let's go _do_ something."

She looks over at him. "We _are_ doing something." They were supposed to study together.

"No, we're not."

"Yes, we are."

"You _know_ what I mean," he huffs. "I'm _bored_."

"Is one slow, normal afternoon too much for you? I thought you could handle anything."

He crawls to the edge of her bed to rest his chin on her shoulder. He's grinning, mischievously. "C'mon, MJ..."

"Okay," she sighs, shuffling through black and white pictures of human anatomy in her lap. "So. Let's go when there's a list of work needing to be done that will affect our academic _lives_? Sure!" She taps the stack of papers against the carpet.

"That's just busy work and you know it. It won't even affect my grade." Peter then tightens his lips, heaves himself to sitting beside her on the floor but lowers his head so he can see her better, working his acclaimed "puppy eyes." She has a fallen eyelash on her cheekbone and a faint whiff of something _sweet_ from her chapstick, her dark umber curls fallen and loose. She looks like summer, he thinks; the gentle slope of her spine and the wide curve of her waist, and his chest tighten, squeezes, _soars_ —bright and burning and so, so lovelorn—with how badly he wants to touch. To hold. To tell.

But summer always ends.

He knows that. It ended once in fifth grade and then with Liz Allan.

In summer, things broil and dry up and are left _raw_.

Summer always, painfully ends, he knows, he does.

"C'mon," he insists, more seriously. She meets his eyes and he doesn't blink. "Let's go _do_ something. I'll pay."

As much as Michelle wants to scold about his use of _those damn puppy eyes again, Jesus Christ, Parker_ , or that she doesn't ever turn down things that are free, instead, her words are caught and she swallows her tongue. She swallows, hands frozen around a green highlighter, and he holds his breath and waits for time to speed back up, she waits for her tongue to unstick from the roof of her mouth and the pit in her stomach to ease at the closed space between them. She gets goosebumps; and then she's licking her lips and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and looks away, whispering—

She doesn't. Because her phone starts going off at rapid notification alerts and purging the mood. Quicker, Peter grabs her phone to toss it to her.

"You're popular."

"Starting to wish I wasn't," she mumbles, opening the app and navigating to _Settings_.

Forever nosey, he hopes back to her side, able to get a glimpse at her phone before she pulls to away.

" _Michelle Jones_ ," he sounds amazed, knowing she's notorious for refusing selfies. "Are you on _Instagram_ _?_ "

She ignores him, grunts.

Peter's already reaching as he asks to see her pictures taken. And of course, she turns away as she scrolls through comments of a picture of her outfit taken two days ago on Thursday. Because, knowing Peter, his reaction could go one of two ways.

Michelle turns and scoots away from him but still he's persistent. "Why not? I bet it's cute!"

Michelle's face warms. "There's no way you'd know that. Besides, take it back—I'm not."

"What? That you're _cute_ _?_ What if I don't want to?"

Michelle scoots across her bedroom floor. Grumbles, "don't call me that, nerd. You know I'm tougher than you."

"You can be tough, hate everything, and still be cute," he insists with a wide, cheeky smile. And as he reaches underneath her arm with one hand, he's able to grab her phone, and with his other, grabs her side and she erupts in laughter.

It's true that Peter's reaction could go one of two ways when seeing her selfie posted for the entire world to see—one: he would go quiet, either by anger or surprise or if somehow, betrayal, and leave; or two: he would be vocal in his disgust, or disagreement, or whatever emotion he'd feel. Instead, he sits there, the smile vanishing from his face ever so slowly as he stares, reads for what feels like the longest minute of her life; and Michelle stops breathing, her limbs icing over, and she panics as his thumb starts scrolling. She lunges for her phone again. This time, he doesn't fight.

A hand wipes his mouth and there's the growing glow of red to his ears. It's still a moment until he speaks, his voice lost its vigor, "how many followers do you have, MJ?"

She wets her lips, her mouth dry. "I dunno. Maybe, like, eight thousand-something. Why?"

Ever so faintly, he sighs, "oh." And some thing in him just _deflates_.

"Peter...?"

He blinks rapidly, hoping to appear devoid of any of the emotions currently ragging inside him. Eyebrows rise. Tongue slides across his lip; bites it as she speaks, "it's just followers. Just a number."

"I know, I know," he shakes his head. Is blinking again. But then he frowns. "Eight thousand? _Really_ _?_ "

She takes it as jealousy.

"Yeah. I can help you if you want? But I don't think you'll look very good in a dress," she jokes.

It's laughed off. But from this, Peter remembers he follows Michelle on Instagram.

And in the forefront of his mind are the many smutty replies left in her comment section.

* * *

 

The next couple of days are almost a blur.

Cindy, a roommate, and Michelle travel to an unmarked little dive bar off the old highway that never cards and smells like stale beer and French fry grease; they buy shot of whiskey, try quarters in the antique jukebox, and agree to never return again.

Friday next week, Cindy get food poisoning and swears her life against Wendy's fast food.

Michelle receives several texts messages from Peter that are slightly sappy, corny-ass greetings about attracting atoms and the moon and sunsets and remembering the two week old chocolate left in the freezer.

While out along with a roommate, Michelle runs into Ned and watch as he shoots a five-win streak at pool, and Michelle's waistband is digging into her soft stomach and she can't quite bend over without wearing a belt—and then it's still a risk. She shoots peanut shells into her roommate's large cleavage to pass time.

Peter goes missing for three days. Neither Ned, nor Michelle, nor his Aunt May can reach him, his phone going straight to voicemail. When he returns, he checks in a local hospital with a tale about falling down two flights of concrete stairs.

May scolds him over phone remembering his arm that had broken, and "You can't be so reckless—so _careless_ , Peter!"

Michelle takes classes and finishes an essay.

On Facebook, Sally from Midtown High posts pictures of herself canoeing and sitting at a fireplace, the picture's contrast too high and washed in an ugly red tint. A guy that Michelle vaguely remembers from math or somewhere posts a single photo—a group picture of people she doesn't recognize. When she clicks on his profile, it's shown as private and locked.

During his last two days in the hospital, Peter sends Michelle a series of questionable, extraneous text messages. He tells the perk of hospitals are the free ice-cream. Once, Michelle thinks he hints about an inquiry for her schedule, if she could go visit him. She isn't allowed to make certain, as he's dispatched before she gets off of work. She tells him that she can make it up, they have boardgames and movies he could pick out. But he tells how he couldn't ever pick one, how he'll like winning too much, and that he wouldn't be able to focus on the _details_. Not when she's so ticklish, he reminds, jokingly.

She grumbles.

About how she's fascinating—

She rolls her eyes, accuses him of sucking up. Her cheeks warming.

About how she's brilliant—

She's—

Michelle bites her lip. Her stomach flutters.

 _Brilliant_...

She replies that she's heard enough of his "sappy nerd talk."

* * *

 

There's a Christmas party Cindy is invited to that's at some frat house neither never heard of, but there's going to be a talented DJ and expensive alcohol, so the girls decide to attend.

Cindy dresses in lacy black underwear set underneath a red halter dress. Meanwhile, Michelle stands at her closet, trying on and tossing out whatever she thinks doesn't look good or doesn't fit. And it turns out, to her dismay just as she throws on a cute white and blue polkadot shirt and a pair of grey jeans, she's brushing her hair in her mirror when told that some of their old friends will be there—Betty and Ned; with contemplations of hooking them up, Cindy speaks through the door, and Peter's going to be there.

And Michelle stops.

Curses.

Panics.

" _Shit_ _!_ " Cindy hears through the door. She grins to herself.

"I asked him to come. Since, like, I know you don't really know anyone there, and Ned and Betty will probably leave everyone being the third wheel," Cindy admits—Cindy _lies_.

Silence.

Dresser drawers open and close dramatically. There's more shuffling of clothes. And when Michelle swings open the door, aware that there's thirty minutes until their fashionably late turns into just _late_ , she's in nothing but a robe and she isn't so much calm as she's distressed, and pleads for Cindy's help.

The other finds a long-sleeved, off-the-shoulders short blue dress with the tag still on, that Michelle honestly forgot about. She's coaxed into it while Cindy looks for jewelry to replace the simple diamond studs her friend wears, and Michelle rolls her eyes when Cindy shoves obnoxiously glitter eye shadow and large, thin gold hoop earrings and applies the stick of MAC lipstick that Cindy insists is lucky.

Michelle's told to tie the front end of the dress into a knot high over her large thighs.

And she feels like a doll as her clothes are adjusted, arranged, her dress pulled off her shoulders, hair brushed, and makeup adjusted. Michelle's pulse is too fast to focus alone. And then she's told to loose the bra.

And Michelle frets. (It's not like she hasn't before, but—)

Once finished with her handiwork, Cindy steps back. "You look hot!"

Michelle scoffs.

"I'm serious. I want a picture! I don't want to forget this."

* * *

Once alone, Michelle opens up a text message.

 _Hey. Cindy told me that_ _you're coming?_

She anxiously awaits for a reply that comes seconds later.

 ** _I'm in Brooklyn rn. Go where?_** And then she receives, _**That Christmas party**_ , and then after a pause, **_Yeah. I realize I'm going to be late now._**

She wants to smile. She inhales and swallows it instead. Squares her shoulders. Types, _Good. Then can I ask for your opinion on something?_

**_Anything_ **

It blips on her screen way too quickly and Michelle's nerves almost give out. _It's for a party_ , it's stretched, _B_ _e serious_.

There's a brief pause. She imagines him sitting on a roof ledge, the Spider-Man mask pushed halfway up his face.

Finally, her phone shows, **_Sure_** , and, _**Like a heart attack**_.

Michelle squints at [her reflection](https://78.media.tumblr.com/2dc25a7b6c329f4857651292f474a38c/tumblr_oto8x6Vgyv1re9k69o1_1280.jpg) in her full-body bedroom mirror. Everything smells fruity and sweet—a wall fragrance from some sale she'd once been dragged to. Michelle types out her response as she shifts the dress she "technically" eats way too many carbs for and turns to the mirror, opens her camera app, texts, _Promise to not_ _tell anyone_.

* * *

She's the first thing Peter hopes to see when he walks through the front door of the too-big, too-nice two-story mansion in the suburbs that's holding this fabled _not-college_ party that he received some off-hand Facebook invite for. And Peter—

Peter doesn't look as tired as he feels. But Ned had been adamant for his friend to build some sort of social life outside of superhero business and cooping up in his small dormitory, and Ned would never leave it be if Peter didn't come.

He walks in the door and is immediately hit with heated air and smells of salty chips and sweet drinks and Old Spice and pine. The Christmas music is barely heard over the chatter and there are sorority girls in booty shorts and chunky highlights gathering around the food table. A barely decorated Christmas tree sits beside an unlit fireplace. A couple take a picture underneath a mistletoe. Cheap cardboard cutouts of snowflakes, Santa and reindeer, snowmen, and wrapped presents are taped to the walls. A band of bulky frat guys attempt to chug a bottle of Jack Daniels in a corner behind a welcome table of pre-made festive cookies.

Peter exhales. Squeezes through groups of people. Makes his way idly from room to room.

Antonin is who sent the Facebook invite; he's tall and lean against the crowd of whooping guys gathered around a game of eggnog-pong at the dining room table. He grips Peter's shoulder tightly and introduces him as "that cool guy from math class"—if cool was arriving to class in last night's worn shirt, chugging six 5 Hour Energy drinks in a single sitting, and explaining what the teacher couldn't in the back of the room.

One guy asks if it's true that Peter can down three Red Bulls, straight.

The experience is filled with steady bickering and passing around a bottle that Peter refuses, knocking the back of cups others drink, passing hipster suppliers, and now and then the distraction of a passing sorority girl or phone that's recording. The air smells faintly of cinnamon and the peppermint Antonin is chewing. A cup of eggnog and rum mix is offered, and though it's tempting, Peter's phone vibrates with a news notification and he's scratching at his ear, searching for an excuse to exit when he stops.

Which is why his words get stuck in his throat, because—

Because he sees her. Takes in honey-brown skin underneath the dim lights and her high cheekbones and a mouth that stretches in a wide, honest laugh to the girl Michelle's talking to, but then Peter pauses. Cringes. Because he's twenty and this party is a distraction and he shakes his head as he mutters a quick departure to Antonin under his breath.

The pingpong ball hops, messily splashes into a cup. Antonin's shirt is ruined.

Peter wonders into the room just as the girl's leaving, and right on time, Michelle spins. There's a half-empty Solo cup in her hand; Peter freezes—swallows—doesn't register what words are until her eyes harden and she's glaring.

"Hi," he forces out, taking a look over. "So you're...you're wearing the dress...?"

She notices his eyes widening. She's silently thrilled, though her lips press to a tight line. "Yeah, that's kind of why I texted you earlier..."

"Right. You did. Um." He scratches the back of his neck.

She takes a drink from her cup. A guy walks by offering fresh cookies on a plate. Peter's sweating.

"Peter, are you ok?" Michelle silently marvels at how steady her words come.

"Yeah, I'm fine. You just..."

And then she squints.

"Nice—pretty—good, you look—look pretty good. Like, _wow_ _!_ " He laughs nervously, and it dies, pathetically.

Her head tilts. Grins. Her curly ponytail is swept over her shoulder, gets caught in her hoop earring. "Uh huh." And she presses her cup into his hand. "You could use this. You're wound tight like a fucking slinky or something."

Shaking his head, tells that he doesn't drink.

Michelle raises a brow but doesn't point out the bottle of Corona spotted in his trashcan, once.

* * *

It surprises him how it takes a certain amount of courage and self-assurance to accompany Michelle to the drinking game going on in the second sitting room. It takes even more to not explicitly voice his selfishness or disappointment as another guy hits on her. But it comes off in _waves_ and pout that she points out some forty minutes later with her legs draped across his lap as they sit beside the backyard pool, passing back and forth a cup full to the brim of a vodka cocktail, and Peter gazing forlornly into the waters.

And it's then that he makes the biggest mistake of his life, he's sure—he's certain—he suspects.

Michelle's sure that it's the alcohol in his system, but when he repeats more admit, her mouth goes dry and she swears that her already rapid heartbeat literally _stops_ for a full minute.

His hand on her lower thigh tightens. Drifts to her knee.

That is, it turns out, a really fucking colossal mistake.

* * *

"I've been in love with you since I was eighteen. Probably before, too, but I was sure at eighteen," Peter blurts as they're sitting beside the frat house pool.

And it really shouldn't take Michelle nearly as long as it does to process or _reply_ to what he's just said because white noise rings in her ears and he draws lazy circles with a finger across her knee and she's a little _preoccupied_ with silently marveling at how deeply focused his eyes still are, somehow, and—

"Wait...what?" she asks, blinking rapidly. "Say that again..."

"I've been in love with you since I was eighteen," Peter slurs, peering into the cup, back out at the pool, at the party inside, at nearly _anything_ but her face.

Shellshocked, Michelle pauses, short-circuits. Then she's overthinking at rapid speed.

There's silence that surrounds them, the party continuing and loud inside the house behind them.

Michelle breaths. Her brain levels, and she frowns deeply. "See," she manages to huff, eventually. "See, _this_ is why you shouldn't have more than two drinks in one night. You'll start saying things you don't mean. Maybe _listen_ to me next time instead of trying to out-drink me."

He frowns. "Why? Because I told you I—?"

"That you've been quote-unquote _'_ _in love with me'_ since, what, high school? Yeah, Peter, _that's_ why."

He stares as she takes the cup from his hands and she takes a long drink from it. He hesitates. "And that's bad...why—" He clears his throat, "exactly?"

Michelle licks the alcohol from her lips. "Because you say things you don't mean when you're drunk." Then, scoffing, "you once said that you were going to go get three penguins just because you said they looked like perfect butlers."

Peter frowns. "I wasn't lying that time—this time. I didn't lie _this time_." Burps silently.

She shakes her head. "No."

"MJ, I've liked you—"

" _No_ _!_ " She corrects herself. "That's not only why it's wrong."

A roar of laughter erupts from inside, the party behind them still ongoing, a stark contrast of the quiet and cold in the poolside lounge chairs.

"Then _why?_ " His voice is small and her chest clenches at how _sad_ he sounds; and Peter tries not to remember about summers and how they always, invisibly end, but it comes as constant, crashing waves in his drunken haze.

Michelle gazes into the cup. Shrugs, feigning nonchalance. It crumbles as she speaks. "Because _I've_ been in love with _you_ since high school, and that's—" She breaks off, forces a laugh that's more _bitter_ than it's amused. "And that's—that would mean I—we—that I _wasted_ —that we could've—that I _should've_ been—"

"MJ?"

" _What_."

Peter sighs, looking exasperated and long-suffering and endearing—no, more than endearing—because then he's slowly, carefully, _delicately_ pulling her close in a hug, hears her mumble into his thick sweater that she once thought he _died._ His palms are big and warm and comforting against her back and she feels frightfully off-balance, shaky with this knowledge. That she knows. That he _wants_ her to know.

And this is really, truly, magnificently _terrible_ at its timing and she doesn't think he can tell the difference between a bad decision from a good one at this moment.

"I hope you like me," Peter more so asks, taking in large gulps of air, but then immediately grimaces. " _Crap_ —is this weird now?"

Michelle laughs, and squeezes him back. "No, Peter, you dork." And because she doubts he's going to remember much after they finish this cup, she admits, "yeah, I like you too."

* * *

Spoiler: he remembers.

**Author's Note:**

>  **PLEASE leave a comment if you like! Feedback is much appreciated. And kudos don't tell much anyway. Was it bad and crappy? Was it too long and obnoxious? Was it just ok? So please, it's very important that you _comment_.**  
>   
> 
> _Or_ , shoot me a complain and/or critic. Any words, good or bad, are greatly appreciated.


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